


Mafia

by beyondcanon



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is the head of the family, and she's got a problem. She's got a thing for the baker's daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> This story is structured in three acts: The Build Up, The War, and The Chase. Each chapter here will consist of a complete act.
> 
> Acts I and II are already published on my Tumblr. Act III is in the works, and do feel free to pressure me into finishing it.

**01 | MAFIA**

He's got a problem.

He's in too much debt.

She's wearing a gray pantsuit and she's smoking when he enters her office. She looks at him for a second and nods to the bodyguard, who closes the door. Other than that, she doesn't acknowledge his presence for several moments, unnerving him even more.

If she's trying to tell him he's insignificant to her business and she could ruin him and his only daughter, he's got the message a long time ago. He walks over to her desk and sits; she finally puts down her cigarette and stares at him.

She's got deep red nails, just like her lips. Her black, rich hair is long, falling down her back softly. She looks at him. "You know what, Dave?" Her heels click the floor sharply as she approaches the chair.

He's on his early fifties, well shaved, wearing a clean baby blue shirt and beige pants with a dark brown belt. He's a common guy, and he might be a good guy, but all there is to know right then is how frightened he is and how much money he owns her.

He stares at her full red lips and tries not to flinch when she continues, "You own me more than your house's worth." She pauses, hovering over him, sitting on the edge of her desk. "Not that your house is worth anything, with the second mortgage you had to take."

"I'm sorry, I really-" he stumbles, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean his forehead. "My wife, she fell very ill, and we spent all the money we had on her. I don't have anything, but I promise-"

He puts her high heels between his legs on the chair and he falls silent, thankful it wasn't his crotch. "See, Dave, you're mistaking me for someone who cares."

Sweat starts to form again on his forehead. He coughs awkwardly. "Please, if I only could have more time..."

She makes a gesture and he stops speaking again. "You know what, Dave? I'll give you three months. We'll talk then, and you better come up with a solution."

-.-.-.-.-

She's got a problem.

She's got a thing for the baker's daughter.

The baker's daughter is in her twenties, and she's tall and lean and blonde. She's the nicest person anyone could ever meet. She's sweet and she bakes well. Her legs are longer than the Great Wall of China.

"Good morning! A latte and a chocolate cupcake, as usual?"

"Morning, Brittany." She goes there to buy cupcakes just to see Brittany, sometimes. Not that anyone can know that. "Yeah, thanks."

The light smell of coffee fills the bakery as the order is being prepared. The girl turns to her and asks, "How have things been at the Casino?"

"You know, working too much trying to prove myself. My father left some big shoes to fill." And by big shoes, she means she's the head of the family now and she's supposed to run the legal and the illegal businesses of the Lopez clan.

Businesses that do include collecting money from Dave - the baker and the girl's father. And that might include taking his house and his bakery away from him so she can build a club. That might include having Dave beaten or killed to set the example for people who get in more debt than they can handle.

"I know the feeling. Since mom passed away things have been much harder at the bakery. It was her life project, you know? She was the one who kept things going." She gives Santana her tray with her coffee to go and her cupcake. It never ceases to be amazing how easy it is to talk to her, and how beautiful she is in her green apron, with her hair pulled up.

"Where is your dad?" She asks like she hasn't come here to talk to him and say he's late and she's not fucking Santa Claus to wait forever.

"He left a while ago," the girl says, cleaning the counter as she speaks. "He's got a meeting at the bank. He's going to ask for a loan."

Santana sips her drink. The man is the right kind of desperate. "I hope he's lucky with that. Tell your dad I said hi, will you?"

Brittany nods and smiles her pretty smile. "See you around, Santana."

"See you around."

* * *

 

**02 | INAUGURATION**

She's got a problem.

Everything is out of place.

Her mom passed away four months ago; her dad spent his retirement money on her treatment and now all they have is the bakery and so much debt; she misses her mom and no one knows what to do.

She throws away a tray of cookies that taste like shit. She doesn't know enough the run the bakery - she doesn't cook as well as her mom did, and there were so many recipes she was still learning when her mom was too ill to cook anymore. Her dad worked for the government and now he's taking over the administration and hard math and taxes and that kind of thing, awake at night making calculations when he thinks she's not seeing, and he's so stressed his blood pressure is always high.

A familiar voice interrupts her thoughts. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," she answers, sighing. "Just a new recipe that didn't work out." She cleans her hands with a cloth and turns to her client.

There she is, in all her glory: red lips, tight black leather pants, a sleeveless white shirt and cat-like Dior sunglasses. If only she wasn't so out of anyone's league in beautiful dirty rich-ness. "I'm sure it's just a matter of time before you get it right."

Brittany tries not to blush because that is not a compliment, just casual conversation. "Thanks, Santana. What can I get you today?"

"A latte and that new cupcake of yours. I'm feeling adventurous," she answers with a smile so enticing it could bring back the dead, placing the money on the counter.

The gods concede her deepest wish and Santana's phone rings. She turns around to answer it, displaying that fine behind in those fine tight wonderful leather pants. It's only human that to lick one's lips to the sight. But everything good must come to an end; Santana finally turns to her, putting her phone back in her purse.

"Everything ready for the inauguration?"

"Hopefully. My speech is ready, I have chosen my outfit, there are people there checking the electrical wiring and making sure everything is safe is well built, and the event team should arrive there to set up the place in an hour," Santana answers, sounding well-rehearsed.

Brittany smiles. "Seems like you've got it under control, then."

"See you there?"

"Definitely."

-.-.-.-.-

She's got a problem.

She can't possibly pull it off like her father did.

She's too young, she's too inexperienced, she's a woman, and she's even a lesbian, for God's sake. All the other families had heterosexual male old farts as their heads. She still doesn't know how she did it.

She adjusts her blue skirt looking at the bathroom mirror and checks if her light grey blouse is well tucked. It is. She breathes in and out, calming her nerves before they call her name. She knows her speech by heart. Everything is going according to plan.

She's also scary as shit, ambitious as shit, and she has left a blood trail to prove how much she wants it and how much she is capable of. Her father taught her well.

The door opens and it's the baker girl who enters, standing by the door when realizing there's someone there. "Sorry, I didn't know-"

She waves her hand to say there is no problem. "I was just... preparing myself for my speech." She looks at the girl in her faded jeans and purple blouse and wishes she could just go and kiss her. Maybe in another universe. "Sometimes being born into a certain family decides your life in more ways than one." She sighs and walks to the door to leave.

Brittany holds Santana's arm to stop her from leaving. Santana looks at her, and how close they actually are - she can feel the other girl's warmth, the jasmine undertones in her perfume, and if she wanted, if she leaned forward, she could kiss the baker's daughter right then.

"Family issues or not, you are going to be great today," Brittany says, letting go of Santana's arm. "Go get them."

She looks at Brittany and nods, leaving the bathroom right on time for her speech.

She goes to the pulpit under applause, and she smiles to the audience, to the local media, to the members of the family. Her speech is one of togetherness, of strengthening the community ties and the neighborhood, of pride for having grown up there and gratitude for being blessed with good chances in life. How important it is to have a chance to make it, to have opportunities, and how the young boys and girls are the ones who are going to change things.

There are flashes everywhere, and the spot of light on her feels a bit uncomfortable, but she ignores it all.

Her father always said she had a great knack for speeches. She commands their attention, explaining the creation and the works of the Mario Lopez Youth Center, a dream her father couldn't live to see but she had promised to him before he died she would finish. She would make sure not only it was built, but that it kept healthy and running for many years to come.

It is nothing but fair to give back to such a wonderful neighborhood.

The applause is thunderous and she steps out in victory.

There is no better way to laundry your money than through charity.

 

* * *

**03 | JUST BUSINESS**

He's insomniac.

He's in such deep shit he can't sleep anymore.

He's a widow, a retired person without the retirement money, a gambler out of control, with a wonderful daughter that moved back into her parents' to save the rent money and quit her job to take over her mother's bakery.

She startles him when sets the mug on his desk with a soft sound. He looks up to her. "I thought you were asleep."

"I could say the same." She sips her own tea, rubbing a hand on his shoulder. "It's late."

"I couldn't sleep," he says, running a hand through his thinning hair. In front of him are bills, taxes, reports, and his good old calculator. "Not even selling everything we have could solve all our problems."

"Everything will be okay, dad." She squeezes his shoulder, trying to gulp down her own feelings of hopelessness. "We don't need to sell anything. It's just business. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. We will get through this."

He sighs. "I miss your mother." She kept him in check, his addiction under control, the family finances healthy and running. Now he's just a mess.

"I know." A long pause follows. "I do too."

-.-.-.-.-

He's in trouble.

Santana Lopez is not happy at all with him.

She's grabbing the lapel of his suit and pushing him aside. "You fucking piece of shit."

"I had- I had her sign an agreement-" His voice trembles so much it's pathetic; he knows it.

She pushes him against the wall and slaps him, hard, twice. "I'm not going after her in court, you dumb fuck. I fucked her a few times. It's not the kind of thing I want on public record."

She steps closer to him and he flinches.

"I'll talk to her," he says. "I'll talk to her and make it go away."

"You better." The gleam in her eyes makes her nothing short of ferocious. "You think my father put your poor ass through Harvard Law for nothing?" She slaps him again. "Why do you think he hired your unemployed father as a driver? Because you're all so nice?"

He owns her everything. Without her father his family would still be living in a motel, always hungry and sick, and he would still be working as a stripper. But he went to Harvard instead; his smaller siblings are finishing college and would never need to know about any of this. His father, God have him, died proud and active, rid of his depression.

She lights up a cigarette and he breathes out, relieved. She smokes when she's calming down. He remains in silence, waiting for her instructions.

"We're not children anymore, Trouty. It's business now. I gave you a simple job," she says before she takes a long drag. His heart is beating so frantically he might pass out in any moment. "You were supposed to make sure that Elaine bitch never said a word."

He can't fail her. He won't fail her. "I'll take care of it."

She looks into his eyes. "You helped me before and I'll never forget it. But this situation can't get out of hand."

"It won't," he nods, gathering courage. "No one has to know."

She nods and he leaves in a hurry.

-.-.-.-.-

She's so gay sometimes.

Like when she sees Santana entering the bakery wearing a black dress and black pumps.

She's a sight that could probably kill a person with a heart condition. "Hi, Brittany."

"Hey." She smiles, placing a lock of blond hair behind her ear. "Did you see the newspaper yesterday? They mentioned the inauguration. They even put a picture of you delivering your speech."

Santana nods and smiles back. "Not my best angle but I'll take it."

"I think you looked great," she says before she loses her courage, trying not to blush.

Santana clears her throat and runs a hand on her jaw, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Thanks."

"So, what can I get you today?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm here in business," Santana answers, looking around. "I came to talk to Dave."

She frowns, but says nothing. It's better to discuss with her dad afterwards. "He's back at the office. Let me take you there."

Santana follows in silence, giving her one last glance before closing the door.

* * *

 

 

**04 | NEGOTIATIONS**

She's angry.

She's angrier than she thought she could be.

Her father tries to reason with her, that this is the best that they could possibly get, that this is a very generous offer, that they can start over after that, get rid of this trouble and this lack of money and the bakery is making them slaves.

She sets her arm free from his grasp, in the verge of tears. Doesn't he understand? She thought of all people, he would agree with her. She grew up in that place, and she saw her mom fought for it. Can't he feel how much her mom still inhabits these rooms, the strength of her presence, and how it's the only thing they have left to pull them together?

But he says he's an old man who deserves his rest, that he can't stand it anymore and Santana's offer is more than enough for their debt and their mortgage on the house. It's much more than it's really worth. In the end, the bakery is in his name and it's up to him to make that decision.

She leaves the house with a set destination in mind.

-.-.-.-.-

She's minding her own business.

She's at her own house, eating her steak with green salad, hearing the reports from the men on the field, when someone starts making a scene by the door, and one of her bodyguards comes in to say some Brittany Pierce wants to talk to her.

"Let her in."

The bodyguards are looking at the uninvited guest with hostility, the men on the table stop what they're doing to look at her in surprise, and even her butler stops in the middle of the room, holding a bottle of wine and looking confused.

Brittany looks a little out of breath, her chest rising and falling quickly. She's wearing a white dress with a blue belt, and her hair is down; she would be absolutely stunning if she was not so clearly out of her mind.

Santana clears her throat, commanding the attention back to her. "Everyone can go. Except for you, Tony. You can pour us some wine."

The rustling of chairs and people leaving fills the room for a moment. The bodyguards are the last ones to leave. They look at her, as if waiting final confirmation. She nods, cleaning the corner of her mouth with a napkin and placing it back on her lap.

Tony pours each a glass of wine and leaves.

Santana looks at Brittany, who's still standing by the door, and gestures for her to sit by her left.

Brittany takes a few steps forward, and the woman is already talking like a Soviet rocket ready to launch. "Have you lost your mind? Talking to my father behind my back, wanting to take my mother's work, her entire life?"

Santana raises her eyebrows and sips her wine quietly.

Brittany seems to deflate, finally, taking a big gulp of Santana's $200-dollar wine and licking her lower lip before speaking. "You can't buy my mom's bakery."

It's entertaining to find someone who wants to disagree with her. Santana doesn't hesitate.

"Yes, I can." Brittany seems to be left wordless by the bluntness. "Have you taken a closer look at the books and balances?"

Brittany frowns a bit. "Not really."

"Your father doesn't owe any bank. He owes me." She sips her wine, looking into Brittany's pretty eyes. "I'm tired of waiting around. He has no savings whatsoever and his gambling addition is way out of his control."

"His gambling-"

"Yes," Santana interrupts. "You have been away for a long time, Brittany." Hadn't she noticed anything? Did she even know who she was speaking to? "I'm being very generous with my offer, you know. I could have done a lot worse. Instead, I'm giving you a chance to start new, debt and obligation-free."

Apparently not ready to give up a fight, Brittany asks, "And what do you get out of this?"

"That's none of your business," Santana answers, firm and authoritative. "You burst into my house, interrupts my meeting, and now you're demanding to know my personal reasons? That's not acceptable." She takes a deep breath. "You should leave."

She gestures to the window and Tony enters the room to escort Brittany out.

* * *

 

 

**05 | REVELATION**

He's so embarrassed.

He should have never let things get this far.

When his daughter comes back home - and thank God she's in one piece -, he's sitting on an armchair, drinking.

"You could have told me," she tells him.

"Of course I couldn't," he answers with a scoff, taking a sip of his beer. "You weren't here, and I had it under control."

She sits on a chair by the table. "I don't believe you."

"Mostly under control, anyway," her father adds with a gesture. "Of course, then, your mother got sick, and everything was ruined: your savings, my savings, my retirement money, the bakery's clientele..."

She frowns, as if surprised. "You could have told me when I came here."

He nods. "I could. But I didn't." He pauses for a long moment. His wife always said pride would be the death of him, and that could happen quite literally. "I'm sorry. I thought I could make it go away."

"Now what, dad?" The rattling of the house keys in her hand disturbs the silence.

"Now we sell everything," he sighs, finishing his drink.

She looks to him. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

He looks back at her. "There is no other way. It's better than I had hoped for."

She seems to realize something. "Are you still gambling? Be honest."

He shakes his head, setting his bottle aside. "No. Santana won't let me anymore."

He considers telling her how dangerous Santana is and how deep he's into this; he almost tells her, mouth opening to begin the sentence. But he changes his mind. The less Brittany knows, the better. There is no reason to get her even more involved.

-.-.-.-.-

She's looking just fine.

She applies a layer of red lipstick and looks at herself on the mirror, donning a marvelous blue dress.

Her secretary is still at her desk when she leaves, remind her of the appointments for the next day. He's a tall, black man, very handsome with his full lips and broad shoulders, because the darker the chocolate the richer the taste and she has always been a woman to like her man candy.

She winks at him and takes the elevator to reach the Casino's restaurant.

"Good evening, Ms. Jones," the maître greets her and takes her suitcase, walking them to the VIP area immediately.

Santana Lopez gets up when seeing her, holding her right hand with both hands, a warm smile on her face. "You, my friend, look stunning."

They kiss each other's cheeks and she takes a good look at Santana: black slacks, a dress shirt, and Jimmy Choo's latest jade pointy pumps. Girl always had style.

"You are a flatterer, Santana." She answers with another smile, nodding to the maître when he pulls a chair for her and leaves her suitcase by her side. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"I hope you don't mind, I already ordered us some wine," Santana says, pointing at the glasses already served. "I figured forcing a meeting on a Friday night deserved it."

"Thank you," she answers politely, taking a few files out of her suitcase. "Now business, because I have something later."

Santana looks at her maliciously, but says nothing, taking the papers. She looks at the charts and reports for a few moments. "No unpleasant surprises?"

"Not at all," she answers smugly. "The key players are wrapped around my finger. All of them have agreed to sell, more or less easily." She points to their files. "And you took care of the last one."

Santana seems pleased. "You're a good one, Mercedes."

"You bet I am." She drinks her wine, letting it caress her taste buds. "Now, about the Casino, the next quarter projection will show a rise in 10% in profit and a decrease in 10% in delinquency. Everything's clean and working, and we had no more staff-related disturbances since I restructured the team. Oh, and the restaurant has gotten some great reviews in the most popular blogs; we've got reservations for the whole month."

"Perfect," Santana says. "I knew it was the right decision to get you to run things around here."

She nods. She doesn't mind at all being a pawn in Santana's long term strategy. It got her an MBA, a job, and now she runs the biggest Casino in town before turning 40. Knowing whom to side with was the key to success.

They toast.

* * *

 

 

**06 | ANTICIPATION**

She has to do something.

She owns a bakery, so the most logic decision is to bake an apology cake.

Saturday early mornings were always slow, even before the clientele had started to disappear, so she goes out to buy all the ingredients, like a handful of the reddest strawberries and a jar of organic strawberry jam. Then she returns and places on the counter the flour, sugar, eggs, butter, and every other ingredient, and turns on the music.

The result is an exquisite, two-layer chocolate cake decorated with icing, strawberries, and silvery sugar beads to sex it all up.

She licks her own lips looking at her masterpiece, and takes the car keys to deliver it.

-.-.-.-.-

It's a dangerous game he's playing.

He shouldn't be there at all.

He opens his shirt some more, displaying his abundant chest hair. It doesn't help his feeling of suffocation at all, but at least he tried. His grip on his camera is tight, as if he's afraid to lose it.

The bodyguards are at the door - two huge Puerto Ricans, hair cut military style, with more gun permissions than Pentagon soldiers - silent and threatening. Their gaze could fall on his car in any given moment. He has to be discreet.

He takes a few pictures with his best zoom: click, Santana leaving the car, wearing black boots, black pants and a dark gold shirt; click, Santana taking her sunglasses off; click, Santana entering the bakery.

He's got no serious lead so far. Those photos mean nothing if he doesn't take things further. He knows he has to get closer.

-.-.-.-.-

She's regretting it already.

She's leaving too many clues as it is.

She enters the bakery nonetheless, taking the precaution of turning the OPEN sign to its CLOSED side. No interruptions. It's silent, and quiet; she thinks she can hear the rustling of someone at the back, so she takes a few slow steps further.

The baker shows up. She's drying her hands, and she's wearing a short skirt and a sleeveless shirt, no apron in sight, hair up in a ponytail. A small silence falls; they just stare at each other.

Santana can feel her heart pounding in her chest; it's hard to keep her cool when it's just the two of them, like this. She shouldn't be there. She shouldn't be doing this, but she can't help herself.

Finally, Brittany goes around the counter and gets closer. It's hard to remember what she wanted by going there.

"Why do you keep coming back, Santana?" Brittany asks soft, but sure.

She takes a few deep breaths. Brittany still smells like jasmine. "I don't know."

Brittany stretches her hand. "I think you do." Santana takes it.

Brittany pulls her closer, until their bodies are touching - it's ten times more glorious than she thought it would be. She closes her eyes in anticipation, feeling the faint touch of Brittany's fingertips tracing her features. Her mouth feels dry; she places her hands on Brittany's waist, leaning in.

She joins their lips slowly, feeling Brittany's palm cupping her face, a thumb on her cheek. Brittany kisses her lower lip, taking it between hers and sucking softly, and she sighs to it, licking Brittany's upper lip.

Their breaths mingle together and Brittany tastes sweet, kissing her again. When she notices, she's got Brittany against a wall, pressing their bodies together. Brittany hums in approval, arms around Santana's shoulders.

The kiss deepens and she starts to explore Brittany's mouth, licking behind her teeth, the roof of her mouth, before rubbing their tongues together. They moan together, low, as Santana presses her hips to Brittany's.

Brittany bites Santana's lip, pulling it afterwards. She breaks the kiss to look at Santana - she lets Santana stare as she licks her own lips.

She turns them around and Santana finds herself pressed against the wall; she throws her head back when Brittany's lips find her neck.

* * *

 

**07 | CLASHES**

Shit just got serious.

He lets out a panicked, high pitched shriek when the blade hits 2 inches away from his right eye, sinking into the window's wooden frame.

Grabbing his camera, he makes a run for it - it's a complicated neighborhood with adjacent houses and gardens; if he's smart and fast enough maybe he can make it. He looks back and she's jumping the window and settling on the ground with a thud, her teeth showing in anger as she sprints after his sorry ass.

Exercising was never his thing. He jumps his first low fence, struggling for a second, thankful for having no dogs in sight. He jumps his second fence, followed by the sound of her steps. He turns right and enters the small corridor between a house and a wall, almost tripping on some flower vases.

It's absolutely terrifying how she doesn't say a single word; she just throws a fucking knife at him and then runs.

He looks behind and she's getting closer. His lungs are already aching, but he can't slow down - only God knows what she would do to him if she catches up - so he tries to control his breathing and keep his rhythm.

He finally reaches a bigger street. He can see his car with the corner of his eye, and a triumphant smile spreads across his face as he speeds up one last time

until-

a car door opens suddenly, hitting him full front, and he falls back with a nose bleed.

Santana grabs him by the hair and throws him inside her car.

* * *

 

 

**08 | CONTRACTS**

He takes his baseball cap off as he enters the office, hesitant.

The lawyer, a pretty blonde boy, smiles to him and invites him to sit. "Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Hummel."

He grumbles something back, fiddling with his coat. He can't avoid the frustration at the whole situation – he's a man who fixes things, of plans and solutions, but he couldn't fix his stepson.

The lawyer's smile doesn't falter. "I have everything ready. Let me just-" he opens a drawer and takes a file out, placing it neatly on the desk. "-take the contract."

He takes the papers and gives it a quick read, a frown on his face.

"Take your time, Mr. Hummel."

He nods to the lawyer, immersed in the reading. A confidentiality agreement about the sale and the owner; a description of the property, to be bought with all the equipment inside it; and finally, enough money in cash to pay for his son's expensive rehab treatment.

He sighs after a few minutes. The document was as polished and round as it could be. He takes the pen, under the scrutinizing eye of the Evans lawyer, and signs the contract.

-.-.-.-.-

He watches his last client leave with a small frown.

He puts the signed contract back, takes another out, and closes the drawer with a key. He puts the key back in his pocket immediately.

Things were escalating faster than he'd like. Santana is surely going to strike big and fast and soon.

The secretary tells him his next appointment called to say she couldn't come.

One more reluctant seller to go. They're procrastinating enough.

He puts his suit's jacket back on and leaves. If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.

-.-.-.-.-

She has to hide her look of surprise when Sam enters the bakery.

She clears her throat to hide the lie. "Sorry I couldn't go, Sam, but dad isn't feeling well and I can't leave the bakery-"

"Don't worry, Britt." He smiles his nice smile – it hasn't changed a single bit since they were children – and she smiles nervously back. "I brought you the contract so Mr. Pierce can take his time reading it."

She's needs more time to find a way out.

"Thanks, I'll – I'll give it to him and we'll call you when we have signed it."

His smile turns business-like. "I'll be in touch," he says, placing the file on the counter, and leaves.

She makes sure he's out of sight before taking her phone.

"Santana, hi. It's Brittany." She listens for a bit with a small smile. "I'm great. Just wondering when you could take me to dinner."

-.-.-.-.-

She shouldn't be doing this.

She can't help herself, though.

Her hips move back and forth and her back arches, drops of sweat falling on her spine to her lower back. She moans, eyes closed, desperate for release.

The thought of how much trouble they'd be into if they were discovered makes her even hotter, breathier, closer. She shouldn't be messing with another family. She should not be riding the consigliere's fingers, biting her neck, scratching her upper back, grabbing her fire-red hair.

But Jesus, were they talented fingers.

The consigliere's adds another finger, curling them inside, and they both moan in unison.

Jesus, she's so stretched, so ready, so ready-

She would have left her boyfriend a lot sooner if she knew she could come so many times in one night.

She would have offered her services to the Lopez family a long time ago if she knew this was possible.

"QUINN!" Her thighs quiver and her entire body shakes, being held in place by strong arms as she moans and collapses in a long wave.

Quinn kisses her jaw line softly, pulling her fingers out with a smug smile.

She whines, pulling Quinn in for a kiss. "Not bad for a Lopez."

Quinn laughs and changes positions so she's on top, looking down at her. "Oh, Rachel, I'm just getting started."

She's in so much trouble.

She couldn't care less.

* * *

 

 

**09 | ALLIES**

He knows what he needs to do and he does it well.

It's his biggest talent.

Jacob Ben Israel coughs blood on the ground before passing out. He looks at the beaten little fucker without emotion as two of his soldiers take him to the doorstep of the Smythe household.

On top of the fucker he places a picture of Sebastian having his cock sucked by a man.

That should teach the Smythe clan that they're not the only ones watching.

They get in the car and leave before sunrise.

He places a cigarette between his lips as they drive off. He smiles as he lights it up – Santana would surely show her appreciation for his dedication.

The underboss position has remained open since Matt died.

He is going to get it.

A war would start soon, and the Puckerman is the right man for the job.

-.-.-.-.-

She has a fucking migraine.

She hears the door open and close behind her, but she doesn't bother to look.

Santana stumbles on something and curses under her breath. "Shit, Quinn. Must you be so fucking creepy?"

She rubs slow circles on her temple. "I have a migraine. Leave me alone." Santana takes her hands off and assumes the massage. "God, you're good."

She can almost hear Santana smile. "I've been told."

Santana manages to massage her temples and her scalp at once, earning a moan from Quinn. Girl had always been good with her hands.

They fall in silence for a while.

"Anything new to tell me?" Santana asks quietly, not stopping her massage.

Quinn nods. "Sebastian killed his brother. It's a matter of days before he takes power and becomes the head of the family. His father won't last long."

Santana presses a particular spot that makes Quinn whine in pain and pleasure. "I had Puck deliver their little spy back to them. He was starting to get too close to things."

Quinn lets her chest fall forward as Santana goes down to her neck. "We need to move fast."

Santana pauses. "Is Berry ready for it?"

"She is."

-.-.-.-.-

She bites her lip.

When she said to Santana she should take her to dinner, she hadn't meant the Lopez household.

She hadn't imagined Santana in a black apron, blue dress shirt and jeans, stirring the contents of a pan and sipping wine. The kitchen is clean and modern, and Santana moves fluidly in it.

Brittany sips her own wine. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I can do a few things," Santana says, a smile on the corner of her lip, as she leaves the stove to stand in front of Brittany.

She's absolutely gorgeous. Brittany takes a second to just look at her.

Finally, she sets her glass of wine aside, pulling Santana by the waistband of her pants. Santana settles against her, hands on her waist, to kiss her neck.

Time's running out. Brittany sighs, running one hand through Santana's hair.

"I was thinking," she tries.

"About what?" Santana says, running the tip of her tongue over Brittany's neck.

Brittany shivers all over. "If there isn't a better way to fix things."

Santana bites the pulse point, hips pressing against Brittany's.

Brittany lets out a shaky breath, licking her own lips. "About the bakery. Do you have to buy it? Can't we agree on something else?"

Santana stops and looks at Brittany. "Is this what this is about? Is that why you're here, Brittany?"

Brittany's eyes widen. "No! Santana! I'm here because-"

Santana isn't taking none of it, apparently. "Because you want to seduce me into forgiving your father's debt?"

"No, because I'm attracted to-"

Santana takes a step back and returns to the stove, stirring the pan a few more times in silence.

None of them say anything for a long moment.

God. Talk about things going wrong.

* * *

 

 

**10 | SMYTHE**

His daughter is so close to danger it makes him terrified.

But it's the lying that makes him angry.

He's screaming. "What do you think you're doing?"

She's screaming right back. "Trying to buy us time! I'm not a quitter."

He holds the contract in his hands, swinging it back and forth. "Hiding the contract from me, like I'm a child? Going out with Santana Lopez?"

The stubbornness came all from his side of the family, he knows it. She's relentless. "I wanted to talk to her, change her mind!"

He settles the papers on the dinner table, trying to cool his head. "You don't make someone like that change her mind, Britt. You don't  _make_  Santana Lopez do anything."

Brittany frowns – he's said too much. "Why are you so afraid of her, dad?"

"Be careful, Britt," he answers with a hard look. "You're not used to this kind of people."

He's not going to be the one to admit his association with the mafia.

Not for now.

-.-.-.-.-

He watches his soldiers take the guns from the cars to the building under the light of a streetlamp.

Inside, a soldier finishes installing security equipment; another one stocks the guns on a shelf; a last one uses a computer by the left.

He knocks on the window's glass frame, listening to the bulletproof glass echo behind the closed wooden panel.

"Puck?" someone calls him to help carry a shipment. He takes the box.

Burt Hummel's garage, no more.

This was Santana's third military headquarters now.

-.-.-.-.-

She stares at Brittany.

Brittany stares are her.

She puts her pen down.

Brittany takes a few steps closer.

She's not angry. She's disappointed, for several reasons. For expecting more of Brittany. For allowing herself to be played like that. "I'm not negotiating with you about the bakery."

Brittany nods.

"I'm not talking to you about the bakery."

Brittany nods again, never breaking eye contact.

"It's a problem my lawyers and your father have to deal with."

Brittany kneels on the ground next to Santana's chair, holding its armrest. "I'm sorry."

"I don't care," she says mechanically, but Brittany is kissing her and she's kissing back, grabbing her hair and pulling her to her lap, biting her lower lip and sighing into the kiss.

She just can't help it.

-.-.-.-.-

He sighs, staring at his dying father, wondering why it's taking so long.

The old man would never go out without fight.

He looks at the finger on his father's hand, wishing it was his. It shines under the fluorescent light, tempting.

He thinks of how much authority and power and it would yield him in due time. He would stop being the spoiled brat to be the head of the family, and all these fuckers would have to bow to him.

His personal bodyguard enters the room. "It's taken care of," he says simply.

He nods, gesturing for him to leave. Jacob Ben-Israel would never be found.

No one fails the Smythe family and lives to tell the story. His father said never to forgive, and he was willing to follow that tradition.

He holds in his pocket the photo of him.

Santana was young for her position, but she was blood thirsty.

He could smell something in the air, but he couldn't know what exactly.

Things had to move faster, or his clan would end up in a compromising position.

He had to take leadership.

Then he had to strike back.

* * *

 

 

**11 | UNPREDICTABLE**

Sweat drips on her forearms, on her spine, soaking her shirt, clinging to the hairs on her neck, messing her tight ponytail. She breathes heavily through her nose, swinging away from Puck's violent fist.

She takes advantage to hit him square in the chest, earning an oof from him and a sideways glance.

Don't be lazy, her father told her. Never rest, never let your guard down. You don't get anything by being weak or by being distracted.

Eyes on the prize.

She smirks when he grabs her arm, using it as leverage to turn her entire body and kick the side of his body, falling to the ground when he lets her go, a hand on the ground kicking his ankles again and getting him on the ground.

The sound echoes in the room, and Puck grunts. He's good though; he's been training for the same time as her.

Basically since they could walk.

His legs intertwine with hers in a painful way, and it's his time to smirk. Arrogant fucker.

It's time for her to throw all her weight to her legs, taking his advantage away and changing positions.

They disentangle from each other and share a look, both on their knees.

Their playlist ends and he curses.

It's only their heavy breathing.

Keep fit. Know what comes your way, her father used to say. Keep moving, stay on top. We're a family of fighters.

Puck tries a series of punches, all well blocked by her. When she starts taking a few steps forward and hitting him, he uses his arms to keep her away.

"We need the bakery," he tries to distract her.

His shirtless torso glistens with sweat.

"I know," she groans, stumbling back when he hits her shoulder.

"I know she was your teenage dream or something, but we need that spot."

She tries to block him, but it's inefficient and she grunts in pain.

"You need to shut the fuck up," it's the last thing she says before dropping to the ground and using the strength in her legs to take him down.

-.-.-.-.-

He opens his mouth dumbly, still on the phone.

"What do you mean my son ran away?"

The clinic staff apologizes, Mr. Hummel this, Mr. Hummel that, and there's some excuse and another excuse that they're looking for him, but he doesn't really listen.

"I'm paying you a lot of money to keep my son clean and to KEEP HIM SAFE!" He yells at the phone. "You better find him today."

He feels his hands shaking.

He has to call Rachel and let her know.

-.-.-.-.-

It's a slow day again.

She's daydreaming, resting her head on her hands, when Santana enters, turning the "open" sign to "closed".

This was trouble.

And boy, those tight jeans, black leather jacket and black boots could be a porn movie in themselves. With Santana's body, her breasts, her cleavage, that smile that smelled like danger, it shoots straight to Brittany's crotch.

"Let's go somewhere," Santana says, and taps on the motorcycle's helmet.

Her throat feels dry. "I can't leave the-"

"Yes, you can," she answers impatiently, pressing Brittany against the counter, and there is not much more to argue. "Let's go somewhere just you and me."

Must Santana be so delicious and irresistible? Brittany nods, wrapping her arms around Santana's neck.

Santana kisses her so slow it's painful, sucking on her lower lip and running the tip of her tongue afterwards.

Her head spins already, her breath catching, because she shouldn't be kissing Santana and this is taking her plans nowhere, but Santana is such a good kisser, especially when she moans inside Brittany's mouth and sinks her nails in Brittany's lower back like that.

"Just you and me," Brittany repeats, whining. Santana kisses her jaw.

-.-.-.-.-

She throws her head back on the pillow.

"Open those pretty legs to me, babe," Quinn says, running her hands on her inner thigh and giving her shivers all over. "Aren't you willing?"

She moves her hips slowly, cursing under her breath. "Fucking tease."

Quinn smiles, scratching Rachel's breasts, pressing her body against the back of Rachel's legs. "I bet you're soaked."

"Oh God, I am," she moans at the small friction, moving her hips some more. "I'm so wet."

Quinn runs a finger through Rachel's folds, and they moan in unison.

"MORE," Rachel moans, and Quinn happily complies. Sweet baby Jesus. "Just like that, please, Quinn," she mumbles incoherently, only satisfied when Quinn starts moving her fingers.

Those fingers draw circles and eights and Rachel can listen to how wet she is.

"Are you gonna come again, Rachel? Come nice and long on my fingers, like you always do?"

Oh God. She will.

-.-.-.-.-

He puts on a toothy grin that doesn't really reach his eyes.

"You see, Mr. Pierce, it's not just about you," he says, closing the buttons of his jacket and getting closer. "Your delay is fucking me over. You think Santana is happy with all this?"

The poor man is breaking a sweat already.

"You think she cares if your daughter kept the contract from you? You think she cares you don't sign anything on the second week of the month because you're a shitty, superstitious gambler?" He laughs. "You think I care?"

He doesn't really like to intimidate people, but he's growing impatient. Santana is not happy and there's only the bakery left before the clan is ready for it.

Plus, the man is a coward. It's going to be a piece of cake.

"It's Monday, Mr. Pierce. No bad luck. Do me a favor and sign this."

-.-.-.-.-

He frowns at the sun and stumbles over a trashcan on the sidewalk as he leaves his dealer's shady house, a shot and a sniff too many later.

It's too fucking bright for anyone's sake.

His trembling hands take a cigarette out of his pocket and light it. God, how he missed it all.

When he gets to his father's garage shop, hoping to steal some money from the cash register, it's closed. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at Puck's ugly mohawk as he leaves the building and enters his car.

Puck was Lopez. Not a Smythe.

Something was very wrong.

He needed to see Rachel. Rachel would hug him, explain it to him, and maybe even give him a blowjob with those red lips. He missed her; they hadn't seen each other in forever. She hadn't visited at the clinic, but that was because his stepdad forbid any visitors.

Rachel would make everything better.

* * *

 

 

**12 | TRIGGER**

He looks at himself on the mirror as he closes the buttons of his black shirt. His pants and his belt are also black – he's all about the grieving as he prepares for his father's funeral.

It's not that he's not sad. He is, in his own way. But his father had been on his deathbed for too long, and he weakened the family with it.

They were disorganized, without direction, for too long. The Lopez family had already started to take its spoils, getting their main Colombian suppliers and putting forward a series of investments to gain the love of the community and the appearance of a respectable public persona.

He isn't dumb – he can see it coming.

He would be ready.

-.-.-.-.-

He wishes for a second he was dressed in something but his dealer's old jeans and t-shirt.

He would see the love of his life after months and he was a little smelly and not his usual handsome self.

His heart beats fast with expectation when he knocks on the door.

-.-.-.-.-

She sighs, taking in the smell of grass and green and the peace around them.

One hour and a half away from the city and the scenario could change so much. She lies by Santana's side, an arm on Santana's stomach.

"Why are we here?" she asks.

Santana sighs. "I needed to get away and I wanted to see you." When she puts a hand on Brittany's waist, her ring shines under the sun.

Brittany wonders when she started using it – she's sure that when she left, Santana didn't wear it. She can't really recall who used it – maybe her father? Maybe she started using it after he passed away?

"Why do you need to get away?"

"There's some business that could use my absence right now." Santana says cryptically.

She kisses under Santana's ear, earning another sigh in return.

-.-.-.-.-

She's getting ready to join Quinn in the bathroom when someone knocks on the door.

"Wait a second," she tells Quinn as she grabs her robe and leaves the bedroom.

Quinn frowns, grabbing her coat to cover herself. "You expecting someone?"

"Not really," she answers, reaching for the door handle.

-.-.-.-.-

He shakes Mr. Pierce's hand.

"It's been a pleasure doing business," he says insincerely, saving the bakery's keys in his pocket. "You have one hour to take your personal belongings. Our men will be here after that."

-.-.-.-.-

He smiles when Rachel answers the door wearing nothing but a robe – she's even more naked than he expected, and that meant they could be having sex in no time.

Rachel's eyes widen and she takes a step back. "Finn-"

"I'm back." He enters the house and closes the door behind him, holding Rachel's neck to kiss her. "We can be together again, love."

She stiffens and places a hand on his chest. "Finn, you can't just show up like this."

He frowns. "What do you mean? You're my girlfriend, of course I can show up at your house."

The low sound of someone's footsteps startles him.

When he looks away from Rachel there's a redhead in a beige overcoat and nothing underneath. "You better get your hands off my girl."

-.-.-.-.-

He grunts, trying to fix one last box in his car.

One of his men gives it one last push.

He looks at his phone: one new message.

_Contract signed._

"Let's go," he says to his men, entering his car. One last headquarter to go.

The three black SUVs follow him quietly.

-.-.-.-.-

She closes her eyes when Brittany kisses her softly, a hand on her waist like old times.

She wishes she could take her to a nice restaurant, but it wouldn't be safe.

Not for a while.

She kisses back, sucking on Brittany's lower lip and scratching her teeth. Brittany lets out a breath that's also a whine, pulling her closer.

She deepens the kiss, exploring Brittany's mouth and sneaking a hand under Brittany's coat. She feels Brittany arching her back, her mouth half open in pleasure when Santana scratches her lower back.

"Still sensitive, huh?" Santana's laugh is muffled by Brittany hard, thirsty kiss. She smiles into it when Brittany changes positions so she's on top.

-.-.-.-.-

She takes a few steps closer.

"Are you dumb or something?" Her voice has an edge to it – this oaf tree is messing with the wrong person. "I said to take your ugly hands way from her."

His stupid eyes go back and forth between her and Rachel as he slowly realizes. He takes a gun, much to Rachel's fear and her delight. She smiles deviously.

He seems divided between pointing at Rachel and at her. "No one is taking my future wife away from me, especially not a Lopez!"

Rachel pushes the gun to the side with one hand, touching his face with the other. "Finn, don't do anything you'll regr-"

"You're the one screwing things!" He falters his aim, too busy screaming at Rachel. "Do you think Sebastian won't find out? He'll do much worse than killing you! You have sworn loyalty to the Smythe clan!"

It's the distraction she needs.

She takes the two semiautomatic pistols hidden under her coat and points at him. "You didn't think I'd walk around unarmed, did you?"

**-.-.-.-.-**

He supervises the unloading of the guns and munitions.

Santana was giving him more and more responsibility – they both knew she was preparing him for the Underboss position.

He smiles at the thought.

A soldier secures the windows; another works on the door, as the others finish fixing the place up. It wouldn't be as well done as the other three headquarters, but it should be a fortress as well in no time.

They could work on the finer details later.

The Smythe's head of the family was dead. Sebastian should officially take over in no time.

They needed to upgrade security in all senior positions and main dealings.

-.-.-.-.-

She whines, eyes closed, when she starts moving her hips on Santana's thigh, still fully clothed.

It's been too long.

Santana breathes out shakily, hands settling on her ass to increase the rhythm – for all her bravado, she's been immensely shy, like she's afraid to take things further.

"I missed you," she finally admits, panting on Santana's ear.

"Me too," Santana answers slowly, kissing her shoulder and squeezing her ass.

-.-.-.-.-

She exchanges a look with Quinn.

The blood is already pooling at their feet.

"I'll call Puck," Quinn says.

"I'll call Santana," she says at the same time, grabbing her home phone.

It would be fucking great if her cellphone hadn't run out of battery.

It rings two times. She doesn't wait for Santana to say anything. "We have a situation. Quinn killed Finn."

"Your boyfriend?"

She hears Quinn on the phone on the other side of her room. "I need a cover-up. Yes. I'll text you the address."

"Yes," she answers Santana. "I don't know if he has contacted someone within the clan or not. He might have – he was high and out of his mind and Quinn was here and she's calling Puck and-"

"Breathe," Santana calmly orders.

Her hands are trembling.

"It's ok. Your loyalty rests with me now, and we're ready. Take your guns and your money and I'll give you shelter."

Quinn turns to her. "Puck will be here in fifteen minutes."

-.-.-.-.-

His job was pretty much boring, most of the time. Supervising the phone calls made by key members of the Smythe clan could sound exciting, but it really wasn't.

He yawns, stretching his arms.

Then something interesting finally happens.

He calls Sebastian. "You might want to hear this. Rachel Berry's home phone."

He plays the call. _"We have a situation. Quinn killed Finn." "Your boyfriend?" "Yes. I don't know if he has contacted someone within the clan or not. He might have – he was high and out of his mind and Quinn was here and she's calling Puck and-" "Breathe. It's ok. Your loyalty rests with me now, and we're ready. Take your guns and your money and I'll give you shelter."_

The recorded call ends.

"That little bitch," Sebastian says. "She's going to pay for it."

Sebastian hangs up.

He puts his earphones on and goes back to listening.


	2. Act II

  **01 | SHOOTING**

Her disposable cell phone rings.

"Come back." A deep breath. "It's not safe."

"On my way," she answers.

Brittany looks at her with a frown. "You alright?"

She's so gorgeous, and so far away from everything.

"Of course," Santana answers, kissing Brittany's temple.

Brittany scoots closer, pulling Santana in for a kiss. Their lips move together for a long while; Brittany's nails scratch the back of Santana's neck.

It's Santana who breaks it, head spinning with anxiety. "We've got to go."

They grab their things and she drives extra carefully, extra dangerously. The bike roars and trembles beneath them, and Brittany grabs her waist extra tightly.

—-

His mother was right.

He shouldn't have enlisted with the Lopez clan.

He's sweaty, exhausted, and his brand new shirt is irrevocably stained with blood. The stereo plays some old rock station to muffle the noise. Puck cleans the jigsaw with an old cloth, his hand sliding back and forth, back and forth, blood dripping onto the floor.

He puts the pieces in several garbage bags with the help of another soldier. Puck hands them new shirts and they wash their hands in the bathroom sink. The blood dilutes, mixes with the water against the white basin, and goes away.

There's a short brunette, with long pretty hair. She's hugging herself and watching them without a sound, in trance, standing by the bedroom door. She sneaks glances at Puck, every once in a while; he doesn't seem too happy.

Maybe she's done something. Who knows. Even small women could do some serious damage with a gun.

He takes the trash out and buries it far, far away. He makes the sign of the cross when he's done, all dirt and dried blood — that poor man deserved some sign of respect, regardless of the circumstances of his death.

His mother was right.

—-

He is adamant about going.

He wants to see things burn.

He informs the underboss and gets his blessing. Three soldiers go with him to the gun cabinet, grab two assault rifles each, and head straight to the car — a black, blacked-out van with a stolen license.

No one betrays the family.

He starts the car, adjusts his Ray Bans, and leaves the house. The soldier next to him smokes a cigarette, his thumb caressing the bullets.

When he arrives at the building he slows down until he's almost at a stop. The windows roll down. The men aim. For a moment he wishes he were the one doing the shooting, heavy with expectation.

"No casualties," he says one more time. "Just a good scare."

They fire in unison for several long seconds of loud, deafening sound. The windows crash and break on the sidewalk, reflecting the light as the glass shards fall; the wooden door blasts wood chips everywhere, whining at the bullets' impact; the walls bare the marks.

The Lopez clan would understand the message.

Sebastian drives away.

—-

Her hands are shaking.

She touches the gun on her waist by instinct as she stands up, trying not to think of how three steps forward and she would've been bleeding on the floor. "I have an apartment you can use," she says, always one step ahead of Rachel. "You're not coming back here."

Rachel nods, holding her bag a little tighter.

She feels her heart drumming in her ears. She runs her hands over Rachel's arms, her neck, her waist, until she's sure no harm has been done.

Puck shakes a few pieces of glass off his arm and goes to the back exit. "They're here."

A black sedan surrounded by eight men on motorcycles appears and the door opens. Santana's dark eyes look straight at her.

She holds Rachel's hand and enters the car.

* * *

**02 | COVER**

Two other officers pass by, laughing, with their packed lunches.

They don’t invite him over, as usual.

He eats his sandwich by himself at his desk. He’ll show them when he becomes a detective one day. He’ll show all of them that he can do something other than give out parking tickets.

At least when he had Terry his sandwiches tasted better, but then she faked a pregnancy and left him for a man who wasn’t infertile.

He sighs.

“Will, this just arrived for you,” the front desk clerk says, placing an envelope in front of him before leaving.

It’s a regular, brown envelope. He frowns, turning it over; there’s no sender.

A dozen pictures fall on his desk when he opens it, still chewing his food. They’re all pictures of Santana Lopez, mysterious millionaire: talking to a man under a streetlight and handing him something; entering a local bakery; at a restaurant, dining with a well-known Senator; walking with a black woman at her casino…

He begins to wonder. Looking inside, he sees there’s still a piece of paper in the envelope.

Dig a little deeper, the printed words say, with no other explanation.

He sets his sandwich aside, fingers drumming on his desk as he stares at Santana Lopez’ face.

—

Her security has grown threefold.

It’s a royal pain in the ass, truth be told.

Puck arrives in her office, equal parts handsome and ill-tempered. He opens the fridge and grabs himself a beer.

“…So?” She asks.

He sits in front of her.

“The apartment is clean, the body is gone, we have moved her to a safe location and amped up her security as well. I figured she should have a status 2 now,” he says, opening the bottle with his hand and taking a sip. “The senior members have permanent guards in their homes, every headquarter is ready, new recruits are being trained, and we intercepted a shipment that’ll give us enough ammunition and guns to blow half the city to pieces.”

She should give him a good slap in the face for behaving like a child, but she decides against it. She stares at him with examining eyes. “And?”

He puts the beer down next to him and looks her in the eyes. “Are you sure of what you’re doing?”

She looks at him in silence.

“I don’t trust her. Just because she’s Fabray’s latest doesn’t mean I have to set up a whole new security strategy. She’s trouble.”

She gets up and walks around the table. “Not that I have any explaining to do, of course.” She sits on the edge table right in front of him, leaning her upper body forward.

She sees his posture tense up. She smiles like a predator. “Not that you’re doubting my fucking leadership, right?”  
Puck nods.

“You’re smart, Puck.” She runs the back of her fingers down the side of his face. “You know me. Would I trust the first bitch who comes through my door?”  
He shakes his head, his jaw tense.

“Who do you think got us the Smythe’s Colombian dealer? Who do you think gave us a precise map of every hot spot we managed to buy in the last eight months? Who do you think gave us inside information on their disputes and the boss’ cancer and the number of people on their payroll and their names, you little motherfucker?”

She pushes him back until his chair falls back on the ground. He gets up in position. “I’m sorry, Santana.”

“You’re doing a fucking great job. Don’t ruin things for yourself.” She points at him.

He nods and leaves.

* * *

**03 | LOYALTY**

Santana sends the car for her.

It's a black sedan; the driver opens the door.

She's not sure how she feels about it, but she enters nonetheless. The door is closed for her, and the driver walks around the car and takes his seat.

She's got a lot of questions.

It's more than a momentary distraction, however, the fact that Santana is by the pool, sunbathing like a goddess, when she arrives. She's wearing big sunglasses and a colorful bikini; the smell of sun lotion is sweet.

She smiles when she sees Brittany, stretching her hand out.

Brittany takes it and is promptly pulled to Santana's lap and into a kiss. Brittany sighs; Santana's skin under her palm feels warm and slick. She takes a small bite, and then another and another, until Santana's nails begin to sink into her lower back.

She breaks the kiss. "Hello."

Santana's nails trace a path upward. "Hey."

She missed Santana, after all. She grabs a handful of black hair and joins their lips once more, tongues rubbing together slowly. She hears Santana's heavy breathing, her hands grabbing Brittany's sides.

She lowers her mouth to Santana's ear. "You've been braver than that."

Santana bites her own red lips, scratching Brittany's stomach and sizing her up and down. "Have I?"

She catches her breath, waiting for Santana's hand to go higher.

—

He waits for the Pierces to leave before parking the car.

His equipment is heavy, and he has to be discreet. He grabs a ladder and sets up two cameras at the entrance, one facing the door and the other facing the street. He goes to the back of the house and installs two other cameras.

He answers the phone. "Puck, sir, the cameras are ready."

There's the sound of someone typing. "I can see that."

He nods to no one. "Ok."

"Now get the fuck out."

The call ends. He puts the phone in his pocket, grabs the ladder and goes back to his car.

—

She taps her fingers on the table.

Quinn puts on her stockings; she takes a second to admire that flawless skin.

Quinn looks into her eyes. "You're going to be just fine, you know. You have done it before."

She sighs and kneels in front of Quinn, running her hands over Quinn's thighs. "That's exactly the problem, love. I've made another oath before."

Quinn's robe hangs half open, enticing. She covers Rachel's hands with her own. "You have risked everything. Santana has your back."

"I hope so." She spreads Quinn's legs apart.

Quinn runs a hand through Rachel's hair softly, kissing the top of her head. "Thank you," she says quietly, "for this."

"No. Thank you for having me." She answers, undoing the knot on Quinn's robe and letting it fall from her shoulders.

—

She's so comfortable she's almost asleep.

"Santana?"

She raises her head from Brittany's breasts and blinks a few times. "Yes?"

"Is everything okay?" Brittany frets a bit with the strings of her bikini. "I mean, the other day when you had to leave all of a sudden. You seemed tense."

It's sad, somehow. She always had to hide things from Brittany. She sits up straighter and pulls Brittany close. "Just business. There are always people who lose and they don't take it so well."

Brittany looks at her, trying to examine her features. But one thing she knows is how to pull a poker face.

"Really. There's nothing wrong, I promise," she says, touching Brittany's hair. "I just wish I had more time to be with you."

They kiss again under the sun.

—

Oh, the things she does for love.

Every senior member is watching closely.

Puck places a .38 and a dagger in front of her.

"You've risked your life and your honor to be here today," Santana says. "And you've proved your worth. We're going to welcome you into a new life. Una nueva vida y una nueva familia, nuevos hermanos por quien luchar. Más honor."

She nods, even if she doesn't speak a word of Spanish.

Puck takes her hand and pricks her finger with a pin until there's blood; it aches faintly. The droplets fall on a picture of the Nuestra Señora De La Divina Providencia.

"You owe us your life now," Santana speaks again. "You will live by the gun and knife, and you will die by the gun and knife as a Lopez."

Puck takes a lighter and burns the picture.

"That my flesh may burn like this if I ever betray the family," she recites. "I swear to be loyal and a woman of honor. I'll never look at another man or woman's partner and I'll respect the elderly. I will never speak of the family to any outsider; I vow to keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut. My heart and my alliance belong to the Lopez clan. I am the Lopez clan."

The senior members seem vaguely satisfied. Puck stands in a corner.

Santana grins, her eyes shining under the light.

* * *

**04 | DISCOVERY**

She pours her father's liquor down the drain.

It's the moment during a dance competition when you realize you've made a mistake — the realization you must go on but it's over — the tripping, the bad landing, the wrong spin.

She's so angry.

"It's too late. It's done," he says, finishing his glass of wine.

Everything she came for, everything she dropped in an instant's notice to be there for her family; everything amounting to nothing.

"I'm the sole owner of both properties — I don't need your authorization."

The empty whiskey bottles clink together when she throws another one into the garbage. Of course he doesn't; he knows everything, doesn't he? He's the king of knowing.

He stands by the kitchen door. "You know I can buy those bottles all over again if I want to."

She doesn't answer. She's not dumb; she won't stand by and allow it to happen, anyway. She takes the trash out and he follows.

"You need to respect me as your father," he tries to say.

She raises a hand. "No. You need to respect me as your daughter and start including me in your decisions." She takes a few steps forward and he takes a few steps back. "I'm not a teenager anymore, you're not as young, and there's no mom around anymore to talk things out."

She throws the black garbage bag in the can.

—

It's going to be a good day.

He just knows it.

The door opens; he stands up immediately, putting on his brightest smile. He's casual and non-threatening in his white long-sleeved shirt and jeans.

A tall brunette enters, long hair moving around.

"Elaine, such a pleasure to finally meet you."

She smiles polite and offers her hand. "Hello, Mr. Smythe."

"Oh, please call me Sebastian. I'm not a man of formalities." He hugs her stretched hand with both of his in a slow handshake, looking into her eyes. "As a matter of fact, I apologize for the security hassle — it's a standard procedure I haven't managed to get rid of."

He gestures to two armchairs; they sit.

She crosses her legs. "Oh, don't worry. It's quite okay."

"Can I offer you anything? Tea, coffee, cookies?"

She shakes her head. She's beautiful, for a woman. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"So, Elaine," he begins, "I'm in dire need of a personal trainer and I've heard great things about your work from my old friend Santana Lopez." He pauses, serving them both a glass of water. "Are you still training with her?"

She nods with a vague smile.

"Unfortunately, no. Not anymore."

He fakes surprise. "Really? Did anything happen?"

He sees her hesitance, the subtle changes in her face. He smiles again.

—

He's discreet.

He eats his bologna sandwich and goes over a few old files.

Santana's fortune, it was much too unexplained; her father's passing was much too violent — he needed to get his hands on her businesses' tax declarations, the financial reports — the community center, the donations to local schools, the number of bodyguards, her connection to Quinn Fabray; there's something to it.

There were government contracts involved, much to his surprise.

These Puerto Ricans are sneaky.

The photos sent to him stare back. He drinks his coffee and looks at them one more time. Every single person already has a name and a background investigation: Mercedes Jones, Noah Puckerman, Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez, David Pierce…

Birth place; employer records; relationship status — that's the easy part. He needs to untangle all of that information to find out how they are all connected.

He just needs to find the right bird to talk.

A clerk comes by with two heavy boxes, placing them on his desk. "Hey, Will, the files you asked for."

He opens the first box.

He is patient, and he has the time.

He'll turn his career around.

* * *

**05 | CHANGE**

He looks around at his brand-new gigantic office.

Santana winks at him when she passes by the glass walls, talking to her financial advisor.

"Here's your coffee, Mr. Evans, and a copy of your appointments for the day."

He takes the drink, trying not to notice the slight tension in his assistant's posture. He feels like saying he's just another cool guy next door; he knows it would amount to nothing.

He's not that young or that good, for that matter.

At times he felt like Santana could read him too easily, and she was trying to buy his heart and loyalty with a promotion.

The name plate on his desk stares him down.

Sam Evans, Corporate Lawyer.

In charge of the entire Lopez business.

—

She stares at her bag in the corner of her room.

She left Los Angeles, her sous chef position; she left her things to be there, to be with her mother and help her father get back on his feet.

He didn't need her, and there wasn't a business to take care of anymore.

She had nothing in that town.

Maybe it was time to start over again.

—

He's tingly and relaxed at the same time.

He adjusts his tie and combs his hair in the mirror.

"Aren't you handsome," Mercedes says from behind him, running her hands over his waist. She kisses the side of his neck; he gets goosebumps all over.

The left corner of his mouth lifts in a half-grin and he zips up the back of her dress, his fingertips touching her soft skin.

She puts on some lipstick, joining her lips with a pop. His stare remains on those red, full lips for a second. "You're gorgeous."

She smiles and smooths out her green dress. "Don't get distracted, white candy. Time to work."

They leave his private bathroom and she blows him a kiss before leaving.

He loves his lunch breaks sometimes.

—

She's a scandal waiting to happen.

She's juggling one too many things — she can't let anything drop, not now.

She wipes her forehead in the bathroom, taking a final breath before facing the cameras. This war was spilling over a bit too out in the open, and she was the one who was going to answer for it.

There were always reporters after a statement, trying to sniff something.

She liked the status quo, but Santana was so full of ambition, always, and they had always fitted like pieces of a puzzle.

It would work, in the end. Santana had vision, and she had patience. They had been orchestrating this for over a year.

When she leaves the building, she thinks of Rachel — maybe love was mutually useful and mutually helpful, in the end.

A tall reporter shows up. "Ms. Fabray, what do you have to say—"

—-

A SOARING HOMICIDE RATE

The city's 671st homicide of 2013 happened in the middle of the day, in the middle of a crowd, on the steps of the church where the victim of homicide 663 was being eulogized. Rory Flanagan, who was 35, collapsed amid gunfire not far from the idling hearse that was there to carry away Joe Hart, 33, shot to death a week earlier.

The shooting was one more jarring reminder of how common killings seem to have grown on the streets of Chicago, the nation's third-largest city. 706 homicides were reported in 2013, an 18 percent increase over the year before, even as the number of killings remained relatively steady or dropped in some cities, including New York City.

While homicides predominate in poor areas, the concern is acute this year because they have occasionally spilled into tourist areas and wealthy districts. They have also broken out into the open, with shootouts occurring on city streets and major thoroughfares.

Dave Karofsky, Inspector of the Police Department in charge of the investigation, stated there is no evidence of a broader crime wave. "In fact, measures of crime apart from homicides, including rapes, robberies, burglaries and auto thefts, have actually decreased by about 10 percent since a year ago", he said.

"We've got an immigration issue, specific to parts of the city, and we have a responsibility to bring a quality of life to those residents, and we are going to do it." Quinn Fabray, the youngest Republican senator, elected with a platform of fighting crime and corruption, added a note of caution, saying that seeking to pin a reason for a single year's increase in serious crime was inadvisable. "We probably need another year to tell if we've got a pattern here," Mrs. Fabray, visibly concerned, said in an interview on Friday.

"My bigger issue is not only the homicides and shootings," she added. "It's what they do to all the legitimate citizens in that community and the kids and how the police department is responding to the community."

More than 1,100 police officers were re-assigned from administrative duties and special forces to patrol the streets, and 300 new recruits are undergoing training. —-

* * *

**06 | MEETING**

It's hard to leave.

Santana looks at her like that and she feels like crying.

"I'm sorry," she tries.

They are in Santana's office, it's night already and she's exhausted.

"You don't need to apologize," Santana stares at her glass, nesting her drink. "It is your life."

She sits on the couch — their silence falls heavy.

"Don't close up on me again," she asks.

Santana looks at her, but says nothing.

She sighs. "I don't have anything here. My family, the bakery…"

"If you think that, maybe you really should leave."

Was Santana hurt? Had she hurt Santana?

"I don't mean—"

Maybe it would be easier if Santana wasn't so cryptic.

She places the glass on her desk. "I know what you mean. It's okay."

Maybe a part of her wished Santana wouldn't give up.

Santana walks to her and sits by her side. "You should do your thing. You should be happy."

She joins their lips, tasting the alcohol on Santana's tongue.

—

Everyone has their eyes on him.

"Puck will take it from here," Santana says.

The maps on the wooden desk are filled with colors and annotations; he tries not to smile as he explains the strategy.

He was invited to a meeting with the seniors, and no one blinked an eye. He can smell the promotion coming his way.

He wonders what was holding Santana back, how much more did he have to prove — he's got what it takes to rise.

He would make sure the Lopez family became the biggest in the state.

They weren't too far.

—

She wakes up earlier.

Santana is the one who likes to stay in bed.

She tries not to move too much, but soon Santana is stirring and grumbling.

"Go back to sleep," she says.

"You wake up at indecent hours," Santana answers, or tries to.

She smiles. "It's what's chefs do, darling. Wake up early."

Santana shakes her head and pulls the covers a little tighter around them.

She runs her hand over Santana's cold back, up and down, until Santana's yawning and closing her eyes again.

"Just a little while, okay?" Santana says, snuggling closer. "Let's stay just a little while."

She kisses Santana's forehead and allows herself to go back to sleep.

—

He can be fucking scary.

It's a delight.

"Each and every one of you are here to be my eyes and ears on the streets."

He walks in front of the new recruits, looking each one of them in the eye.

"I want you armed and thirsty for blood. You are soldiers in a war."

They have been trained and prepared for it — they will be ready for the Lopez.

"You are here to defend the Smythe clan and to earn your place within our family."

His father had underestimated Santana, but no more of that 'she's a woman' bullshit. Now that he had taken charge, things would change.

"You know the ones to be taken alive to us. You know who to kill. You know who to follow. If you're caught, your disposable phone and your gun are to be discarded. I don't want any proof linking back to us."

He pauses, hands behind his back. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" They answer.

He'd pay blood with blood.

And he'd kill that Berry bitch with his own hands.

* * *

**07 | WAR**

He enters the room.

It's a spacious, organized office — the walls in glass, the city spreading out below — with shelves of files, a small beige couch, a big Mac monitor on the desk.

An overweight, black woman looks up and points to the chair in front of him. She's got long black hair, red lipstick, and she doesn't seem too intimidating. "Please have a seat, Mr. Schuester. What can I do for you?"

He sits down, grasping his bag.

"I just have a few questions, Ms. Jones, and I was hoping you could shed some light into them." He takes some files out.

She crosses her legs and smiles. "Of course."

—

It was too good to last.

Santana always goes back to secrecy.

"Will you ever stop hiding, Santana?" She's screaming in Santana's bedroom and she doesn't even care. "If I stayed, if there was an alternate universe, would you still keep me at a distance?"

"You don't understand!" Santana zips up her skirt. "How am I supposed to share my life with someone who's always leaving?"

"You didn't know that."

"I always knew that! You were the one playing house and telling yourself things wouldn't change." She puts on her shirt. "Guess what? Things always fucking change."

"You're the one who doesn't allow herself anything!" She grabs her coat with more force than necessary. "You think you're fooling me with this game of smoke and mirrors?"

Santana raises her hands. "Sorry if I haven't surrendered to your wishes and expectations! That must be a hard blow."

She pushes Santana's shoulders.

Santana gives her a sarcastic smile. "Kitty is upset?"

—

The building is all covered.

He checks if his gun is loaded and ready.

Two guys by the emergency stairs, two guys by the elevator downstairs, four guys by the front door, three drivers with the engines running.

He's inside the elevator with three of his men, watching the numbers go up.

He has to be quick and precise.

The doors open with a smooth sound.

In the span of a moment, he takes a step; turns his body; stretches his arm; aims; and takes two silent shots.

The guards fall, unfortunately deceased.

He smiles.

He's not the best shooter in the family for no reason.

—

"You see, Mr. Schuester, the late Mr. Lopez was very interested in the development of the community, and, thankfully, he saw my potential and decided to invest in my education." She looks touched. "I am who I am today because of him."

He fidgets in his chair. This isn't going anywhere.

"And how long have you been in charge of the hotel and the casino?"

She lights up a cigarette. "Do you mind?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm trying to quit, but you know." She takes a long drag. "I haven't been in this position for long. Two years next month."

"And before that?"

"I worked with the Casino's strategic partnerships, such as the Chicago Office of Tourism and the Chicago Community Affiliate and Summer Jobs programs, and several private companies interested in associating with our brands."

He sighs. Maybe this one doesn't really know.

—

She knows she's probably red as a tomato by now.

"Don't you fucking patronize me! I'm tired of being treated like a child!"

Santana steps closer, still smirking. "Say everything you need to say, Britt. You're leaving anyway."

She doesn't let herself be emotionally blackmailed. "Now it's all my fault, isn't it? You can go to bed at night thinking of how wrong I am."

Santana takes another step forward, so their bodies are touching. "You surely won't be there to know it."

"Because you don't fucking want me to," she says, and she kisses Santana hard.

—

His men take the bodies by the emergency staircase.

He looks at them when they come back — they weren't many, but they were experienced soldiers — and gestures with the directions they are supposed to go.

Somewhere within that apartment are some very important papers.

"We have to starve them, Puck," Santana had told him. "We are going to win this by leaving them nothing: no suppliers, no fees, no government positions, nothing."

He tells his soldiers it's not about blood; it's about getting what they got there for and getting out alive.

One of them opens the door and they enter.

—

She massages her temples.

Fucking piece of shit.

She takes the phone and calls her secretary. "Andre, can you please find me information on a police officer named Will Schuester? Right away. Yes. Thank you."

She has to take care of this.

She makes another call. "Sam, darling, we have an issue. Yes. The family."

Boy was so clueless sometimes.

She considers calling Santana, but decides against it.

No need to put a strain on the family when she could take matters into her own hands.

The trail could never, ever, get to her.

She had worked too hard for it.

No one gets in her way.

—

She pushes Santana and sandwiches her to the wall.

She bites and sucks on Santana's neck, running the tip of her tongue over the spot right after.

Santana's nails scratch her back as she takes off her shirt, and she bites Santana's earlobe because she knows the effect it has.

"Bitch," Santana whimpers, grabbing her waist.

She takes no time in pushing Santana's skirt to the ground and touching her, running a finger through her, then two, circling her clit, spreading the wetness until Santana is panting and willing.

Only then does she thrust.

—

Thank God they all had silencers on their guns and kevlars under their coats.

For a break in, it had been relatively silent.

No drawing attention, Santana had said earlier.

Two men lie dead on the ground; the three others are held hostage, their guns in a bag by the floor.

No surprises.

He trashes the entire house until he gets to the main room.

When he opens the door it's pushed back at him, hitting his forehead and making him stumble back.

The underboss shows up and shoots at his shoulder — he stumbles again, grimacing in pain — before a shot is fired by one of his men.

He shoots the door six times and pushes it open again.

Now he's pissed at that fat fucker.

He enters shooting like a mad person, until he realizes the underboss is behind a shelf; he kicks it with all his strength and makes it fall onto the other man.

He fires three shots between the underboss' eyebrows.

It doesn't take too long for him to realize the files he needs are just behind the body.

Fuckers. He's the right man for this war.

* * *

**08 | SECRECY**

The car makes more wrong turns than the goddamn Bush administration.

All a matter of security, she tells herself.

She's enough of a public figure to be followed.

She's enough of a hypocrite to become a scandal.

The car finally enters the garage. She grabs her purse and leaves, entering the elevator trying not to seem too rushed.

Rachel is waiting for her by the door in shorts and a long sleeved shirt. "Hey."

She closes the door behind her before joining their lips, tips of her fingers on Rachel's neck, breathing on her mouth, tongue darting against hers.

It's been a long, dull day. She thought about this through the entire fucking audience, listening to other senators defend their private interest, deliver uninteresting speeches, engage with her in negotiation… She had endured everything thinking about Rachel.

Rachel whines, pushing her clothes to the floor, undoing her buttons.

She breathes in Rachel's mouth, pushing her across the living room into the bedroom — her own navy suit falling open, the zipper of her skirt coming undone — kissing wet and needy.

Rachel is always welcoming, licking her neck, biting, sucking.

She just hopes they both don't end up killed.

—

Man-candy enters the room with a worried face.

She gets him a glass of wine and goes to the living room.

He takes off his blazer and hangs it by the door; she takes a moment to notice how gorgeous that piece of white chocolate is, with his slim fit shirt, dark jeans and black shoes.

"This, love, will be just between you and me for now."

He nods, sipping his glass. She stretches her legs so her feet can rest on his thighs.

He doesn't say a word as she explains there's a lowly police officer sniffing their trail, who he is and what she thinks he's after.

"He looks like a man on a mission." She finishes her glass off. "He was asking about Santana's connections, about her fortune, trying to find holes in my story."

He starts massaging her feet. "Do you think we're being set up?"

She sighs in contentment and pours herself another glass. "I think, white chocolate, that Sebastian is a little too desperate for leverage. But you never know."

"Has Santana heard of this?"

She shakes her head. "I thought it would be time for you to prove yourself."

He frowns. "You mean—"

"You know exactly what I mean," she says. "Now I want me some foot massage."

He sighs in acceptance, working circles with his thumbs.

—

He's at a dead end.

The Schuester cop doesn't seem to be getting anywhere, his underboss was killed, and the Lopez have more security than fucking Obama.

He lights up a cigarette and taps his fingers on his desk.

His investigator knocks on the door and he waves for him to enter.

"I think I've got something good, boss," he says, sitting on the leather chair and taking some photos out of his suitcase. "Real good."

"Let's see." He takes a drag and grabs the photos. "Who's this?"

"Brittany Pierce," the investigator says, barely containing his smile. "She used to be a chef in LA, but she came back to Chicago when her mother fell ill."

That's boring. "…And?"

"She was Santana's high school sweetheart." The investigator pauses. "And they're seeing each other again. She's been going to the Lopez residence, and their maid says she's been sleeping over for weeks."

He's definitely interested in that kind of dirty detail.

"Santana's bought the Pierce bakery, but not the house, and they seem to have a low-priority security system set up."

He smiles like a predator, smoke coming out of the corner of his mouth. Santana's weakness wouldn't be her strategy, after all. He'd get to her by another way.

—-

Her phone rings, piercing through the silence.

She sets her whiskey glass aside and picks it up. "Hey."

A female voice. "I heard you were in trouble."

"Nothing I can't handle," she answers, stiff. Had the rumors already reached abroad?

"I heard you need a little blood and a little crazy. Someone to speed things up." The voice said, and she could hear the tight smile on the other side of the line. "I'm getting on the jet as soon as I take care of the next shipment."

She downs the rest of her drink in silence.

"You and I know, sis', that we're two sides of the same coin," and the voice turns softer, "there's no fighting it."

She runs a hand through her hair. "I know. I could use some help."

"See you soon."

The line goes dead.

* * *

**09 | PIERCE**

She doesn't have that many things.

She's moved around enough to learn to let go.

She's learned. She folds her shirts one by one, and she rolls up her jeans.

She's learned how to pack a suitcase — jeans and heavy shoes first, t-shirts and pajamas afterwards, and her delicate shirts on top of everything – a long time ago.

She arranges her makeup and her few beauty lotions in her smaller bag.

Her mother had never taken down her teenage posters or her collection of bright-colored nail polish from her desk. Her Secret Drawer remains the same, as well, even as she knew her mother knew of its existence.

She closes her second bag slowly.

She thinks about calling Santana, but decides against it.

She needs a good night's sleep, not more drama.

She needs to start over.

—

He raises his glasses and shouts with the boys.

He was underboss, at least.

They sing to him and he pays for the beer — it's a fair deal — and he tries to enjoy the celebration as much as he can.

Tomorrow would be another day.

For now, he was king.

—

The street lamp cracks, threatening to burn out.

He smokes his fifth Lucky Strike inside his car as he waits for the Pierce man to leave the house.

No invading anyone's property, no drawing attention, no killing — just quick and shortly throw him in the trunk of the car and get to the safehouse.

—

She sips her wine.

The Italian restaurant's VIP area is thankfully closed for them.

"You don't seem too happy," Quinn tells her as she eats her spaghetti.

"That's obvious," she answers. "Sebastian killed Joe and Rory and I have no one to take over the European Union projects; I'm overworked, underfed, and Brittany is leaving town."

Quinn sips her drink. "So that's what this is all about."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Ask her to stay," Quinn answers in simple clarity.

"I can't," Santana answers with a sigh. "I just can't."

—

Time was coming.

Before he leaves the office he takes his .38 out of its case and puts it in his briefcase.

Aside from his shooting lessons, he had never used a gun in his life.

"Mr. Evans," his assistant arrives, respectful, "I have just finished going over the case and I've called Ms. Jones' assistant to set up your dinner. Can I go home now?"

"Of course, kid. See you tomorrow."

Time was coming for him to make his first kill.

—

He needs a drink.

He can't stay in that house not talking to his daughter anymore.

He needs a drink so he can sleep through the night and take her to the airport the next day.

He takes his car keys and his wallet before leaving. When he gets to the street there's a man with a flat tire.

"Hey, can you help me?" He asks. He's short, and a little overweight. "My phone's run out of battery and I don't know how to change a tire."

"Sure. Name's Dave." He says, stretching his hand.

The man shakes hands with him. "Tanaka."

He goes to the back of the car to check the tire when something hits his head and everything goes blank.


End file.
